Safeguard
by blacktop
Summary: With Joss Carter on a dangerous mission with an uncertain target, the protective instincts that drive John Reese kick into overdrive. But when the vigil ends, who guards the guardian? Spoilers for S3, E3 "Lady Killer."


_**Finch: **__Where is Mr. Reese?_

_**Shaw**__: Staying out with Carter until her date tonight_

Carter spotted Reese, of course.

He was seated on a wooden bench in the narrow park across the street from where her squad car idled in the autumn rain, the steam from its exhaust mingling with the vapors rising from the slick pavement.

Even though it was muddy, the carpet of orange leaves encircling the bench made the black and white of John's uniform pop in the afternoon gloom. Drizzle gathered in a shimmering halo over his black hair. He wiped stray rain drops from his nose and mouth, glanced up to catch her eye, then lowered his face toward the cell phone in his lap.

"Is that guy tailing us, Officer Carter?"

Laskey's bright piping tones were meant to be innocent and compliant, Carter knew. But the rookie's voice was getting on her last nerve this afternoon.

"I don't know what you're talking about, Laskey."

She glared at him and pressed her lips into a narrow line. That devastating look would have been enough to silence her son, but this kid was too wet to pick up on the signals. Perhaps he was just a smart-aleck using passive aggression to test his new mentor, probing her boundaries for hidden rules or clues.

Or maybe the overgrown pest was just too damn curious for his own good.

As Laskey undid the wax paper from his sandwich, the crackling sound of the wrapper raked across her ears. Carter drained the last drops from her fourth cup of high-test, the dark acid matching her mood as the claustrophobic atmosphere of the patrol car condensed around the two officers.

She looked again across the slippery street to the little park. Reese was tapping his cell phone screen with the avidity of a teenager raving about her latest crush. Crumpling the empty coffee cup in tense fingers Carter thought back over the preceding twenty-four hours as her rookie devoured his lunch beside her.

XXXXXXXXX

The previous night had been unexpectedly harrowing.

When Finch summoned her to a fancy evening out, she had figured on a few hours of relative ease; her life was a hectic stew of policing, parenting, and juggling her shadowy affair with John Reese. She deserved a brief respite and this assignment looked like just the right opportunity to take one.

Finch had told her to wear something dressy but not too conservative, which she interpreted to mean sexy. To her the slight quaver in his voice meant the evening might feature a tense dance along the high wire of illicitness. She was up for that. As long as they could combine forces to save an innocent life and restore justice, she didn't mind the danger or even the illegality that the job might require.

Smiling at her image in the mirror as she recalled Finch's request, she chose a sheath dress she knew was a proven man-killer.

No doubt she looked good in its tight leather casing: the deep burgundy skin, only a few shades darker than her own, caressed her curves, requiring that she repeatedly smooth it down over her hips in a gesture designed to call attention to her most alluring features.

In this cheeky dress, with its implied nudity, she knew she could own the club and every man in it.

Even though she felt confident, when she entered the urbanely neutral parlor of Finch's safe house she was glad that John's first reaction confirmed her opinion of the dress. She noticed that slow gulp and how he froze in position, leaning slightly toward Finch as if for support.

She saw how his eyes roamed the length of her frame and then settled at the mid-point just below her waist.

A frisson of excitement shot through her as his naked gaze penetrated her from navel to spine.

She recalled then what that final glance in her full-length mirror had revealed: the soft leather molded around the outline of her nipples and belly button leaving tell-tale indentations that flickered in and out of view as she breathed.

"This could work."

As was often the case with them now, John spoke the exact words she was thinking.

John, always stoic, was economical in his movements. But his appreciative drawl betrayed him: she thought he was congratulating himself on having come up with the plan for the evening's entrapment caper. And she figured he was calculating just how he could get her out of the leather dress later on.

The rest of the preliminaries unrolled as expected: the three women admired their fuck-me heels, caressed their guns, appraised make-up and hair styles with silent applause. Anger management lessons coyly offered were roundly declined.

Finding their target at the club was easy; soliciting his attention was even simpler: a cad is a cad is a cad.

Maybe a serial killer, certainly a practiced player, Ian Murphy seemed effortlessly confident the way the blond and classically handsome often did.

The fizzy drinks, the casual fleshy contact on the dance floor, the acrid smoke, and the pumping house music revved her nerves. She felt giddy and sensual, unusually sympathetic with the blur of animal urges swirling around her in the crowded room.

After decades as the annoying nag in drab uniforms, it felt good being the focus of men's appetites for a change. She liked that Murphy was overt in his interest in her. Even though he acted as if he was bestowing a huge favor, she still felt triumphant when he chose her.

She didn't need Finch cheeping in her ear. She knew the drill and accepted Murphy's dinner invitation with a grin she hoped was beguiling.

But outside the club, the night air and Fusco's dark mutterings chilled her. Though Murphy had bid her good night with a soft gust of warm breath against her cheek, he had unexpectedly reversed direction to follow her down the shadowy block.

Rasped warnings blistering her ear, Fusco's anxiety ignited her own fears. Her exposed arms and bare legs made her feel vulnerable. The gun zipped inside the ludicrous purse pressed against her breast mocked her with its steely inaccessibility. Her booties, sexy and fun two hours ago, turned into awkward anchors. Every crack in the pavement seemed to heave and gape as she staggered toward the corner.

Running smack into John took her breath. And not in a good way. Shocked by the sudden turn of the night, she felt demoralized by her own surging fears.

So she was grateful when he held her against his chest a fraction of a second longer than necessary. She let the heat from his jacket erase the goose bumps on her arms. She needed his hands to linger first on her biceps then on her waist as he measured the trembling in her body.

She was glad that he was there certainly, but the weird disorientation of the moment continued even after her panting subsided. Embarrassingly, she was spooked and off balance, a condition she hadn't experienced in years.

She wasn't okay, not in the slightest. And despite her too rapid assurance, he knew it. When he raised his brows, she could see her own fear reflected in his eyes and the queasy sensation of that discovery made her stomach revolt.

Sighing, she realized that there was no way she was going home alone despite her protests. John's refusal to release his stare confirmed that he had launched into guilt-fueled protective drive.

He and Fusco wrangled a moment over who would escort her although the conclusion was never in doubt. Fusco clearly believed that partnership trumped all other connections, so when he turned away at last he threw a baleful glare at John.

Once inside her small apartment, the tensions of the night fractured their usual domestic accord.

John was on guard duty. He refused the leftover eggplant parmesan Taylor had carefully stored in the refrigerator for them. Drinking anything other than tap water was out of the question, so he sipped from a lukewarm tumbler watching with fierce eyes while she gulped a glass of Chianti standing up in the kitchen.

In curt terms, he reminded her that his concern was based on concrete fact not raw sentiment: Murphy knew her real name, her profession, her phone number and her address, thanks to the overly transparent profile Finch had established for her on that dating web site.

She didn't want to argue with John – a headache was gathering behind her eyes with every word he spoke – and she felt bludgeoned into a rare silence by the strange circumstances and the real possibility of danger that he described.

High alert was a mode he rarely employed, but it was apt in these weird circumstances and she knew it.

John dropped his suit jacket on a dining room chair and unclasped the belt buckle to release his shirt tails but otherwise refused to get undressed.

Their moods were so out of synch that when she offered a feeble joke about the sorry quality of modern-day serial killers, he slammed into the bathroom. He stayed there so long she gave up on finishing her nightly routine of lotions and serums; she brushed her teeth at the sink in Taylor's bathroom and retreated under the bed covers alone.

After she extinguished the light, John re-entered the bedroom, his soft sigh escaping into the chilly darkness.

Even in bare feet, John's pacing beside their bed jarred the floor boards and made the door shiver on its hinges each time he approached it. He couldn't contain his pent up energy long enough to lie next to her, despite her request. Finally, she tired of watching his angular silhouette as it sliced through the room and she fell into an unsettled sleep.

XXXXXXXXX

When she awoke, she could hear Taylor showering in preparation for the school day. He didn't drink it, so she knew the coffee she could smell had been brewed by John sometime before dawn. By the time she had buttoned on her uniform, John was gone, a single saucer covered in toast crumbs the only evidence of his presence.

She assumed John had returned to Headquarters to check in with Finch, but when she peered through the living room curtains she spotted his black sedan hulking on the opposite curb, waiting for her to begin her shift.

As she watched, a funereal Shaw sprang from the passenger side of the car and stalked down the street, their morning briefing concluded.

The purposeful clamor of the station house, Fusco's glower from a distant corner, the cheery greeting from the absurdly alert Laskey, these familiar things jarred her to a surprising degree. She knew she wasn't ready for her "date" with the predator Murphy. All the sparkling anticipation of the night before had evaporated, leaving a sour residue of grit and anxiety.

As they trawled the streets of their beat, she felt as though Laskey's stomach was dictating the stops in their morning rounds.

The pair checked in at a bakery for a sack of greasy bagels even though he didn't ask for it: Carter couldn't abide the growling she could hear coming from his empty insides. Through the plate glass windows of the shop she saw John's dark profile before he vanished behind a telephone pole.

An hour later the kid extorted a free fried egg sandwich from the owner of a tavern who wanted to stay on the good side of the law for a change. In a dusty corner of the bar near the restrooms, she noticed John chatting with the stooped waitress who put an extra effort into polishing the veneer on his table before she brought him a mug of coffee.

John wasn't really trying to hide and she found his persistence comforting. He had tailed them all morning, his car a dark blemish in the rain-shrouded traffic snaking behind them. He didn't try to disguise his movements, perhaps feeling that the more obvious he made his pursuit, the easier it would be to scare off Ian Murphy.

But still the stalking worried her and as the day unrolled, she kept a close eye on both men, her rookie and her vigilante.

XXXXXXXXX

Now, his jaw working furiously, Laskey peered past her chin toward John's still figure on the park bench.

"If you say so, Ma'am. But I coulda sworn I saw that guy in the black suit following us when we stopped at Dino's for these sandwiches."

The kid bit a corner off of his triple-decker. A shred of lettuce trailed from his lip, but she decided not to mention it.

Laskey was nothing if not persistent, like a puppy with a chew toy. Only neither the bug-eyed rookie nor the mangled idea was even slightly adorable anymore. The skin on her neck prickled every time the kid opened his mouth to "Ma'am" her with another casual insinuation.

"Naw, you're seeing things, Laskey. Good cops don't have vivid imaginations."

Carter ripped the crust off of her sandwich and rolled it up before easing it into her mouth.

"Once you start inventing stuff, you lose focus, get caught up in your own fantasies. Just concentrate on the facts, son, and leave the make-believe to the civilians."

Of course, she had noticed John behind her in line at the deli.

Even though there were two jostling school boys between them, she could detect his distinctive scent below the rich flavors of the crowded sandwich shop. But she didn't want to confront John in full view of Laskey, so she bought two thick ham-and-swiss on rye - one with mayo, one without - and left Dino's without speaking to him.

She did give John a good eye roll as she pocketed her change, but he only nodded in response and jumped out of line without making a purchase.

"Okay, maybe you got a point there, Ma'am. But all the same, I still don't like his looks."

Laskey folded the wax paper around his half-eaten sandwich. While pressing the masking tape back into place, he stared at John across the street.

"I think I'll go have a word with him. Just urge him to move on, you know, find another target for his amateur spy routine."

"Let me handle this one, Laskey. No need to get all riled up for nothing."

Carter jumped out of the driver's side before the kid could make a move.

When she arrived in front of him, John affected an expression of wide-eyed innocence for the benefit of the rookie watching from the curb. He kept his features tight and smooth, but a lilt inflected his voice as he looked up at her.

"Is something wrong, Officer?"

By remaining seated, John assumed the inferior position, seemingly docile when viewed from afar. But with his legs spread wide and his back rigid he still managed to be both sexy and menacing. To get close enough to say what she wanted to say, Joss had to step between his legs and she felt compromised by the position.

"Look, John, I know you're being supportive. I appreciate it. But enough already. Let me finish my shift. I'm not in any danger from Murphy now. Anyway if I was, I got back up."

She jerked her head in the direction of the squad car.

John chuckled and let his eyebrows float upwards in derision.

"That virgin? He's your protection? Latch-key, isn't that his name?"

"Laskey."

"Yes, your rookie. Does he even know how to fire his weapon?"

"Okay, I'm not having this conversation with you here. You need to beat it, John. That 'virgin' made you back there in the deli. He starts putting two and two together and he might come up with that old description of the Man in the Suit. Make both our lives easier if you just leave now."

She tried to keep the scowl on her face but she knew her forehead was easing and the corners of her lips were twitching up into a phantom smile.

"Ditch the virgin, Joss."

Still no grin for their audience, but she could see the Adam's apple bobbling as he suppressed a laugh.

John was protective for sure, defiantly paranoid even. But the allure was commanding and blunt; she could feel the force field bend around her, enfolding her in a net of seductive attention.

"And how'm I supposed to do that, John?" She pushed back, but only a little.

"Figure it out. Claim you got a sudden headache or Taylor's school called. That poor sap is still glassy-eyed over being in the same car with you. He'll do whatever you tell him to."

A sigh escaped her pursed lips. Then, a triumphant light glinting in his eyes, he pressed his advantage, winning the argument she had lost to him many months ago.

"It's only two thirty now. So I figure you need to spend, what, maybe an hour getting ready for this date with Murphy at seven."

She nodded slightly, feeling her insides tingle at the emerging invitation.

"So ditch the kid and come back with me to the safe house. I'll make it worth your while."

He didn't allow anything lascivious to taint the promise, only the plain truth.

He stared into her eyes then. The dancing smile vanished suddenly from his gaze, replaced by something more unsure and exposed.

This wasn't the stare of the previous evening, the one that sent an erotic flame blazing through her leather dress. Not the precision look of last night with its coiled fury burning up the hushed street. Nor the thousand-yard stare that haunted his face during the long vigil in her apartment.

Now, on this damp afternoon, John's soft look was imploring, hopeful. If she could read his face at all, drawing on her intuition and her memory, she thought she could see something both rudimentary and complicated coalescing there.

When he spoke again, his voice was gentle.

"Let me do this for you, Joss. Let me take care of you."

Tears pricked behind her eyes and she blinked twice to suppress them. She decided she could do this, for herself, for him.

Giving in wasn't the same as surrender, not in this case, not ever with him.

She bent closer so that the hard bill of her cap almost touched his forehead. A few drops of rain dribbled from her hat onto his face, but he didn't raise his hand to brush them away.

"I'll be at the safe house by three thirty. But I'll get there on my own. Laskey may be a baby, but he's not as dumb as you think. So don't follow me. Can you do that, John? For me?"

"Yes. I can do that."

He ducked his eyes, still playing the part of a chastened citizen, cowed by a stern reprimand from the cop on the beat. But she could hear the affection and trust blooming in his voice and knew his fears were quieted for a while.

The guardian protected and safe for a moment more at least.

She straightened up and turned her back to John.

The short walk to the squad car required her to navigate clumps of sodden leaves strewn across the path. As she jerked the door handle, she took a last look back, certain that she would see no one on the bench.

She was right.


End file.
